


A better fate than wisdom

by dotfic



Series: syntaxverse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-17
Updated: 2009-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 11:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean will always make the same choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A better fate than wisdom

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Set a few months after 4x22. Written for smilla02's birthday. Beta by aesc, title from from e.e. cummings. This is a coda of sorts to The syntax of things. You don't have to have read that to read this.

The air smells of damp earth, old stone, and something bright-hot that sears Dean's lungs, reminding him of how the Impala smells after it's been in the August sun for hours.

They aren't the only ones there to do this work, but it all narrows to one sliver of a moment: Sam waiting almost a heartbeat too long, Dean's fingers closing tight around his wrist to yank him back, Castiel stepping into the trap to hold Lucifer in place.

The flare of white light is just like before.

* * *

It's been almost one week since they put Lucifer back in his cage. Six days, eighteen hours, and fifteen minutes, give or take. Not that Dean's been counting.

Dean's had the dream three nights running now. That moment, flickering quick and then gone like a few frames of celluloid film strip. Sam's wrist sharp under his fingers, the light that smells like burning.

The fourth night, it's like the other three nights, Dean starts awake, lying on his side with his pulse acting like it wants to tear itself out of his neck, except this night, he hadn't gone to bed alone. Next to him, Castiel's body is giving off its usual level of heat, a little too much to be human, even at rest.

They'd stopped the freakin' apocalypse--when they checked in at this motel yesterday, it hadn't seemed like much of an indulgence to get two rooms. It's been a couple of months since he'd started doing this with Castiel. Sometimes they had a bed to do it in, and the time to do it thoroughly, and more often they did it where they could, found corners of various levels of comfort. Thirty-two days, give or take. Not that Dean's been counting, except he has been, and this has to be some kind of mind-blowing record for him.

Dean turns onto his back, and feels the hand that slides slow and warm across his chest to rest over his heart, as if Castiel needs to know how fast it's going.

Damp earth, old stone, Lucifer and Castiel caught together in the flare. Dean shuts his eyes tight, blots it out. Lips brush against the bare skin of his shoulder (careful, always careful not to touch the scar that lives there), then trace along his collarbone, then his neck, and then the touch stops. Dean opens his eyes and in the half-darkness, Castiel's face is close to his. He looks concerned and kind of puzzled, and it's not as if Castiel hasn't looked concerned and puzzled before, but Dean feels pulled inside-out by it. Part of him almost enjoys the feeling and part of him can't endure it and it's easy to reach up, sink his fingers into Castiel's spikey dark hair, pull him in and cover his mouth with his own, their tongues sliding together along with their bodies.

* * *

When Dean tells Sam what he wants to do, Sam goes quiet and nods. The sounds of the diner magnify around them for a moment, the clatter of forks against cheap china, the conversations at the other tables.

"I'll help," Sam says, and takes another forkful of scrambled eggs.

"Yeah?" Dean feels a heaviness in chest lighten.

He watches his brother eat, how he's looking around at the other diners, instead of being hunched over a book or his notes. It's been seven days, give or take, and Sam hasn't lost the shadows under his eyes (Dean hasn't either), but his face has more of the openness Dean remembers in him from before.

"'Cause..." Dean stalls, biting into a piece of toast. "She's yours too. And if you'd be more comfortable keeping things as they are..." He swallows. The toast is too dry, and Dean chases it with coffee. This isn't really what Dean's asking, but it's the best gateway. "We can just leave it."

Sam's glance goes to Dean. He waits before speaking. "No. It's okay." He turns back to his food.

Dean thinks that's okay, then, and lets out a breath.

* * *

With Lucifer intruding into Sam's mind, trying to get him as a vessel, the wards Castiel put around the interior of the Impala gave them a barrier, a place where they could rest. The Impala was home, and so the wards worked better there than in any motel room, maybe even better than at Bobby's.

It meant once the wards were in place, once Castiel finished his work and crawled out across the protections, he couldn't go back in. Throughout this war, the Impala was the one place free of angels and demons and their manipulations.

Even if Castiel, Anna, and her small band of rebels have earned their trust, Dean isn't sure how good with this Sam really is. Dean's not even sure how he feels about removing the protections.

But Sam goes to work methodically, like it's his idea. They're doing this.

Wiping away the markings on the dashboard with a wet cloth, Dean's hand stills as he looks through the windshield at Castiel. He's standing a few yards away, a small wrinkle in the middle of his forehead as if he's not sure why they're so intent on this task, and watching him, the rest of Dean's uncertainty goes.

Sam finishes what he's doing in the back and crawls out, leaving the door open. When Dean's done, he crawls out too, then tosses the damp sponge at Sam so it hits him in the chest with a wet-sounding thump. Sam makes an exaggerated wince as he grabs the sponge.

"Asshole." Sam throws it back at him.

Dean moves, and the sponge lands in the soapy bucket. "Inside of the Impala hasn't been this clean in years," Dean says, grinning at him. "Thanks, Sammy," he says, keeping any trace of a smirk from his voice.

"Couldn't get rid of the ones in permanent marker." There's discomfort in Sam's tone as he scratches his shoulder with damp fingers, leaving marks on his t-shirt. "Sorry," he says, turning to Castiel.

"It shouldn't matter," Castiel says. "You removed the key sigils, the ones that gave the barrier strength and shape. I don't think what's left will be a problem."

There's an awkward moment when they're all standing there. Castiel's got his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans (and Dean has almost gotten used to him dressing like a hunter now--dressing like _him_ \--instead of being in the suit and trenchcoat) and stands like he's not sure where he should be standing.

When Sam leaves, he's almost subtle, looking at his watch and saying something about changing before he goes for a long run.

The back door of the Impala rests open like an invitation. The day is bright and they're in a motel parking lot but today Dean doesn't care. He grips Castiel's biceps, pushes him towards the Impala. Castiel allows himself to be shoved into the back seat. Dean almost always feels conscious of Castiel allowing it when Dean pushes, of letting Dean be stronger. There's steel beneath Castiel's give, along with the unusual warmth of his skin.

Dean pulls the door shut after them and it lets out a familiar creak not as loud as the sound the doors up front make. Castiel's back is up against the generous back seat. The cotton of his t-shirt is a little scratchy. It hasn't been washed into threadbare softness yet, but it will be (it will be). He moves these days like he's accepted his form, holds himself less stiffly. Even though it's beyond weird when Jimmy's around, Castiel wears his duplicated body with small differences that make it his own--a way of standing, a gesture. Dean's almost lost any sense that they look alike.

Mixed with the clean-wet, vinyl scents of the car, Castiel smells like coffee (which he drinks a lot of and Dean suspects may be developing an addiction to, even though Dean's still pretty sure Castiel doesn't actually need to eat or drink to survive), the soap from the motel, and something else that is distinctly Castiel. The scent is musty but cool and pleasant, almost comforting.

Like sanctuary, the corner of Dean's mind mutters, as Castiel slides his hands under Dean's shirt, and Dean covers Castiel's mouth with his own.

 _The trap on the floor of the crypt is painted in white._

He has to curve his body, ducking his head to avoid the low curve of the car's roof. Dean puts his mouth on Castiel's neck, licks the hollow beneath his chin, tastes salt as he hears and feels Castiel's breath catch. Castiel's fingers are at Dean's hips now, thumbs brushing his stomach. Dean moves his mouth back up to Castiel's, and a small, strangled noise sounds deep in Castiel's throat, something that could be a stifled whimper. Dean presses Castiel deep against the seat, which creaks under their movements.

 _Castiel gripping Lucifer, holding him in place as the white light consumes them both, Sam's wrist bony under Dean's grip._

They shift together, unclear who's doing more of the tugging and pulling until they're lying along the seat, jean-covered legs tangled together. Dean feels how hard Castiel is, and deliberately pushes up against him, enjoying the low whimper Castiel can no longer stifle. Castiel's shoulders are up against the door, Dean half on top of him, and their bodies fit together, as if they've always done this in the back of the Impala, always.

The thing is, Dean knows if that moment in the crypt happened again, he'd do it again, what he's dreamt over and over: Lucifer lunging for Sam, Sam dazed, Dean grabbing Sam, yanking him back and watching, just watching as Castiel steps into the fire.

 _Damp earth, old stone._

Dean's fingers clench without him meaning to, digging into Castiel's arms, as he kisses him harder.

"Dean." Castiel pulls away, his voice low as he puts his hands on either side of Dean's face, holding him still with his stare as much as his fingers.

It's impossible to look back at Castiel and Dean keeps his gaze fixed on the door handle.

"The trap we used for Lucifer, I designed specifically for him. His name was woven into it. It didn't bind me too."

"But it could've," Dean mutters with his face against Castiel's shoulder. He finds it difficult to swallow.

After another long stretch of quiet, Castiel says, his voice scratchy, "I'll live longer than you."

When Dean works himself up to look Castiel right in the face, what he sees there turns him inside out again, only it's like a knife this time. Then Castiel's expression softens, the loss and fear in his eyes calming. His lips twitch. Castiel's fingers are gentle framing Dean's face as Castiel's mouth brushes his. Dean kisses him back, slow and easy now, as he relaxes into having what is.

~end


End file.
